


My Name Is

by The_Buzz



Series: Advent Calendar [8]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Angel reprogramming, Aziraphale whump, Gen, Good Omens and Supernatural happen in the same universe, No slash but could be read as A/C, Plot Twist, Torture, Two different Crowleys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Buzz/pseuds/The_Buzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, Naomi pays Aziraphale a visit. That sort of disobedience to Heaven can't go unpunished, after all. When she's done with him, Aziraphale will be a new man (-shaped creature).</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Name Is

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of prompts that I filled for a friend leading up to the holidays (hence, the "Advent Calendar" series). This story was written for the prompt: Naomi pays Aziraphale a visit after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't.

It was a wonderfully slow day at the bookshop. Though it was nearly three in the afternoon on a lazy summer Saturday, he’d had only one customer so far—and, after Aziraphale had glowered at her for a bit, she’d left without a single attempted purchase. The world that Adam had recreated, he thought, was going splendidly so far.

He hummed tunelessly to himself as he sorted the books on a tall shelf into an order that he hoped would be even more confusing for customers.

A soft brush of wind and a flapping noise announced the arrival of an angel. Aziraphale spun around, startled. He couldn’t remember the last time any angel had actually _showed up_. And now, there were three of them. One in the body of a tall woman, and two other thug-looking types in suits.

“Aziraphale,” Naomi said. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it.”

Aziraphale bobbed his head nervously. “Why yes, yes it has. Mesopotamia, I believe?”

Naomi motioned for the two thug-types to surround him. One appeared on either side of him and grabbed his arms. Very suddenly, and not very rationally, Aziraphale wished Crowley were there.

“Did you think we wouldn’t find out?” Naomi asked.

Aziraphale blinked. “Find out what?”

Naomi gave a little nod, and one of the goons kneed Aziraphale in the stomach. He doubled over, gasping.

“That you tried to stop the apocalypse from happening,” Naomi said as Aziraphale straightened laboriously. “You wouldn’t have succeeded on your own, as we understand, but you certainly tried. Do know what we call that, Aziraphale? Defying God’s plan?”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. He had a fairly good idea of what they called it, though.

“Rebellion,” Naomi said. “It’s a miracle you didn’t fall like your friend.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Aziraphale murmured, as if he’d just been reminded of it.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to do something about that,” Naomi said.

As they whisked him back to Heaven and sat him down in a chair with straps on the arms, Aziraphale found that he, too, was rather afraid.

-

He wasn’t sure how long it lasted. In all his years on Earth he’d been, for the most part, left alone. Never before had he done anything so out of the purview of Heavenly rules. A wile, here and there, to honor his arrangement with Crowley.  But that had been all.

At first, what he noticed most was the pain. Every spike into his head felt like, well, like a spike in his head. He twitched and shuddered groaned. As the hours dragged on, he gave up every semblance of composure and he screamed and screamed and screamed.

Then something stranger started to happen. The memories he’d been desperately clinging to in an effort to stave off the pain grew oddly elusive. He could remember sharing a cup of wine with Crowley, watching the London Tower go up, and then all of a sudden he couldn’t remember whether it had been the London Tower or the London Globe, and then all of a sudden he wasn’t sure if they’d been in London at all, or what they’d been drinking or doing, until it dissolved out of his mind like a cloud in the wind.

Then an odder thing started to happen. Shapes and faces and names he’d no recollection of began to fill his mind. A vague thought occurred to him—they weren’t just resetting him, they were erasing him—and they were replacing him with someone else. He’d heard of it happening before. Sometimes they threw you down in a new body. Sometimes they just rewrote it all.

“What—what are you doing?” he gasped out, when an errant memory that didn’t belong to him flashed across his mind.

Naomi seemed surprised to hear him speak. “Why, we’re remaking you, of course. You’re not fit to be an angel anymore.”

“Not…an angel?” Aziraphale gasped.

“You’ll never even know you were one,” Naomi told him sweetly.

“Making me…human…?” Aziraphale asked, for the memories had included visions of dirty, cobblestone streets, a dank room with a straw pallet, a little cowering human boy, a shop filled with half-repaired suits of clothing, and something about pigs.

“Human? No,” Naomi said. “I suppose, you’ll think you once were. The memories you’re seeing _are_ mostly those of a man who once lived. But no, I’m making you into something more fitting your rebellion. Your _fall_.”

An errant shred of memory slipped through his mind—a man with a pointy goatee and a neck ruff, smiling as his eyes flicked to red—his own voice agreeing heartily to something—and a whiskery kiss.

Then Naomi twisted a spike and white-hot agony flooded through him.

He didn’t ask any more questions.

-

He awoke on the side of a road, deeply confused. He couldn’t remember how he’s gotten there, or for that matter, where _there_ was, or who _he_ was. There were a couple of names rattling around in his head—one was “Fergus McCleod,” rattling around like a tune that wouldn’t leave his head. He was fairly sure, however, that it wasn’t his name.

He picked himself up and brushed off his clothes, a horrible ugly combination of items, all of which seemed to involve tartan, somewhere. He’d have to find new ones, of course. _That_ he knew. As he started walking back toward…somewhere…the memories returned slowly. He was a demon, a crossroads demon. He’d been human, once, a pathetic man named Fergus McCloud who’d sold his soul for an extra three inches of willy. He didn’t want anything to do with being Fergus, he knew that much as well. He had to report to Hell. That was something else. It was all starting to come together now. Whatever had happened, he was a demon and he had to report to Hell. His boss, Lilith. That was another name rattling around his head.

There was one name, though, that he still couldn’t place, other than that it meant an awful lot to him. He supposed, after some deliberation, that it must be _his_ name. He hated being Fergus, after all, so he must have chosen a different name.

He’d be able to teleport to Hell as soon as he figured out where he was. (For the most part, it was an easy trip down, but there were a few spots in the earth’s core you really didn’t want to try flying through.)

So he grabbed the first human he saw, a small old lady pushing a shopping cart down the street.

“Where are we?” he asked. He had a vague recollection that his voice had once sounded different, but put that down as another bloody Fergus flashback. Whatever had hit him had really shaken _those_ loose.

“I’m, I’m sorry, my dear?” the lady asked.

He snorted at being called _dear_. “I’m not your dear. What town is this? What country?”

“Why, we’re in Fall River. Massachusetts, of course. Are you all right, dear? What’s your name?”

“I’m not your dear,” he mumbled again, trying to remember whether Fall River was a good place to drop down to Hell.

“What is your name, then?” the old lady asked.

He gave her a flat stare, then supposed there was no reason to keep it a secret. “My name,” he said haughtily, “is Crowley.”

And without another word, Crowley went to Hell.


End file.
